


Miles to Go

by elizabethcatherine



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt Steve Harrington, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Like Billy But He's Not Satan, Insomnia, Nightmares, No Slash, One Shot, Post-Season/Series 03, Steve and Dustin Are Bros, Steve-centric, Vague References to The Goonies, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25260361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethcatherine/pseuds/elizabethcatherine
Summary: Steve doesn't sleep after Starcourt.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 88





	Miles to Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I always want more Steve content than the show can reasonably provide, and because Steve and Dustin are the best.
> 
> Takes place between the events at Starcourt Mall and the "Three Months Later" epilogue at the end of season three. Naturally, there will be spoilers if you haven't seen it. You've been warned.
> 
> Rated for language and some blood and gore.

Steve is tired.

Bone-deep, aching, full-body tired. Exhaustion doesn’t cover it, this feeling of being completely and utterly wrung out. He feels like he could sleep anywhere — standing up, or upside-down, or on a bed of nails. And yet he can’t sleep in his own bed.

It isn’t for lack of trying. Every night he pulls back the cover, lies down obediently, closes his eyes like he’s supposed to. But sleep rarely comes, and when it does it’s fractured by blood and metal and sneering Russians. The absurdity of it isn’t lost on him, that a couple of sadistic a-holes with Bond-villain accents loom larger in his nightmares than a literal meat monster. They didn’t even do that much to him, physically. Hardly more than Billy did in their fight last year.

Deep down, though, Steve knows it doesn’t matter what they actually did. It’s what could’ve been that haunts him — the knowledge that he and Robin could’ve died down there, miles underground, listening to each other’s screams. That the Russians could’ve forgone the drugs and used the bone saw instead. That he could be dealing with far worse right now than nightmares and a black eye.

Ergo, the not-sleeping.

He’d managed okay at first. The kids hardly noticed the dark circles when he chauffeured them around — they were preoccupied with their own kid stuff, El and Will’s move, the looming threat of high school — and he’d scraped together enough energy to drop sarcastic comments here and there, so that nothing seemed wrong. Robin would have noticed for sure, but she’d escaped to her dad’s place in Chicago soon after Starcourt. (“I’ve never been so happy to be a child of divorce,” she said. Steve wouldn’t mind it either if he could get away from Hawkins.) As for his parents, well… Steve doesn’t think his parents would notice if he died in front of them. Not that they’re ever there for him to die in front of.

So he’d managed. Drove the kids around and ate when he needed to eat and stared at the ceiling for a few hours every night. But it’s been a month now, a month of almost no sleep, and Steve is starting to unravel.

“Steve? Earth to Steve!” A piece of popcorn ricochets off his cheekbone.

He turns, half a beat too late, and scowls at Dustin through the dim light of the movie theater. “What, buttmunch?”

Dustin doesn’t take the bait, eyeing Steve suspiciously. “You were like, zoned out, man.”

“I’m watching the movie, moron.”

“Movie’s over. Who’s the moron now?”

Steve blinks and turns to the movie screen. Sure enough, the credits are playing. “Maybe I was watching the credits. A lot of people work on movies, you know. Not my fault you don’t appreciate the effort that went into set design or whatever.”

“Watching the credits, huh? I don’t think you even watched the movie,” Dustin shoots back.

“Well, I did, shithead.” 

“Name one thing that happened.”

Steve racks his brain and seizes on something. “The kids found a treasure map!”

“That happened in like the first ten minutes!”

“You said name one thing that happened, I named a thing that happened!”

“Fine, whatever,” Dustin huffs. “Now could you quit appreciating the set design and drive me home?”

“Your obnoxious wish is my command.”

Steve doesn’t stumble walking out of the theater, which is a triumph in itself. The car ride also goes fairly smoothly. He only almost runs a red light, but catches himself at the last second. The Bimmer has good brakes, and the intersection is empty anyway. Dustin doesn’t even pause in his monologue about the cinematic strengths and weaknesses of Steven Spielberg. (Steve tunes that out, which feels a little mean, but he really can’t process the kid’s motormouth right now.)

When he pulls into Dustin’s driveway, the kid chirps out a goodbye and sprints to the door — probably worried about being late to dinner or something. Steve doesn’t have anything to be late for; his parents are away, and the only thing waiting for him at home is leftover Chinese food. He almost wishes he was in a hurry. Unconsciously, Steve pushes down a little harder on the gas. He can almost convince himself there’s a reason to rush home, can almost imagine it. A warm, just-cooked meal, his parents smiling and asking him about his day… He can see his mother reaching out to him, inviting him in for a hug. The street fades away as the speedometer ticks past fifty.

Steve jolts awake to a neon red haze. There’s a sudden impact, a _pop_ , a bright-white pain searing across his whole left side. The street is back but it’s spinning at a nauseating speed. The red haze turns to green and there’s another impact. The spinning stops abruptly. Steve falls over to the right, ragdoll-limp.

“Ugh,” he moans against the center console. His left shoulder is on fire, the muscles spasming painfully. His head throbs. And is that blood trickling down his cheek?

“Hey!” comes a voice from outside the car, somehow both angry and concerned. And familiar. The driver side door is wrenched open. “Are you all right, asshole? Not that you deserve my help.”

Steve raises his head weakly and hears a sharp intake of breath. “Shit. Harrington?”

“Billy,” Steve mumbles, taking in the mullet and sweat-damp tank top before dropping his head back onto the polished wood of the console.

“Billy?” says Billy, sounding confused. _Dumbass forgot his own name_ , Steve thinks dimly. His mouth tastes weird, like metal. He lets the metal dribble out over his lips.

“Christ. Stay there, okay? I gotta find a pay phone so I can call 911.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Steve says, or tries to say. His tongue isn’t working right.

Steve lies there a little while, aching and watching the light tick from green to yellow to red. Billy comes back. “An ambulance is on the way.”

“ _Your_ ‘mbulance s’on the way,” Steve slurs. It sounded better in his head. A hand grasps his shoulder out of the blue and he shouts hoarsely, fireworks of pain tearing through the joint. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was actually sparking. Billy snatches his hand away at Steve’s shout, but doesn't back off. Instead he reaches around to Steve’s waist and tugs, hefting him into an upright position against the driver’s seat. Steve’s head lolls over to the left, where he can look Billy in the eye. Sort of. His eyes won’t quite focus on Billy’s face.

“I think your shoulder is dislocated,” says Billy. “And you might have a concussion.”

“Mm,” Steve says with disinterest. He closes his eyes. Beneath the pain is the same heavy tiredness that’s clung to him for weeks, dragging him down with gentle insistence. The ambulance isn’t here yet; surely he has time for a quick nap.

“Nope, no, wake the fuck up,” says Billy, shaking Steve lightly. When that doesn’t work, he pokes him in the shoulder. Steve’s eyes shoot open and he lets out a strangled yelp. “You are not about to die on me, Harrington. You owe me money to fix my car.”

“Screw you,” Steve breathes with a burst of clarity. He’s too tired to move his head, so he just glares in Billy’s general direction. Sirens sound in the distance and grow louder. Steve’s head throbs. He feels himself slipping.

“Not much longer,” Billy says. “Stay awake.” But Steve is tired, tired of staying awake, and he thinks the hell with it, he can brave the nightmares. So when sleep comes, he lets it take him.

“Harrington! STEVE!”

***

Screams and hot blood on the back of his neck. _Robin_. The whirring of metal teeth, chewing on heaving, screaming flesh, snapping sinews and gnawing through bone. Crunch, crunch. You’re next.

“ _Steve_.” Strangled and wet and final. A teenage girl’s dying plea and he can’t answer it, can’t do anything, his tongue is a lump of lead in his mouth or maybe it’s gone entirely and her blood is sliding down his back and fear is crushing his heart, squeezing like a boa constrictor, slow but deadly. He has never known fear like this before. It’s all-consuming.

It’s a good thing his tongue is gone, he thinks. If he could speak he’d tell them anything, anything to end the fear. Names, addresses. Max and Lucas. The Byers. Nancy. It’s too late for Dustin and his mother. For all Steve knows, they could be dead already.

“ _Steve_.” More insistent. It’s weird to hear her call him that and not loser, or dingus.

He finds his voice, or part of it. “Just die,” he whispers. It’s the best advice he can give. He doesn’t get to find out whether she takes it because they turn the bone saw on him and he’s screaming, screaming, and the fear was terrible but the pain is worse and—

“Steve! God, please wake up!”

Steve crashes into consciousness, the tail end of a scream still dripping from his lips. He bolts upright, groaning as fire races up and down his arm. Wild eyes dart around the room until they land on a mop of curly hair.

“Dustin?” he pants, horrified. “You’re not supposed to be here, you got out, you’re getting help!”

Confusion clouds the boy’s eyes, then disappears just as quickly. “Steve, you’re not in the lab. You’re in the _hospital_.”

“Hospital?” Steve repeats, disbelieving. He can still hear the saw whirring and crunching. He shudders, then winces.

“Yeah, Hawkins Memorial.” Dustin looks pale and nervous. _From the screaming_ , Steve thinks, and grits his teeth through another wave of pain. “Lay back,” Dustin says, and Steve trusts him, so he does. The back of the bed is tilted so he’s sort of sitting up. His arm still throbs, but it’s bearable. “They popped your shoulder back in, but there’s some nerve damage. Plus you have a mild concussion. Do you remember what happened?”

“Car accident,” says Steve. He’s fairly sure of that. Now that he’s coming down from the nightmare, it’s all flooding back.

“Right,” Dustin agrees, sounding relieved. He’s sitting in a plastic chair that he must have dragged as close to Steve’s bed as physically possible.

“How long have I been out?”

“It’s eleven o’clock, so like four hours? The nurse said you were in and out before, but not totally awake.”

“Is Billy okay?”

“Billy?” Dustin frowns. _That’s what Billy said_ , Steve thinks absurdly, and snorts a little.

“Yeah, you know, the nutcase who beat my face in last year? Whose car I just crashed into? Or did you forget?” Steve smiles slightly to show he’s teasing. The movement pulls at something higher on his face — stitches, maybe.

“Steve,” Dustin says, dead serious. “Billy Hargrove is dead.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Steve says in horror. “The accident killed him? He seemed fine, he was _helping_ me—”

“No, it wasn’t the accident,” Dustin interrupts. His eyes are full of urgency and fear. “You really don’t remember? Billy died at Starcourt.”

It’s like an electric shock. Steve actually flinches back into the bed. “He— he died,” Steve whispers. “I remember.” And he does, he remembers every bloodstained second. It’s all there. The knowledge has been there this whole time, but if Billy’s dead…

“I saw him,” Steve says, shaking his head and staring into Dustin’s eyes, willing the kid to believe him. “I know he’s dead but he was _there_. He spoke to me. He poked me in the arm, for Christ’s sake! It was his car I hit!”

Dustin’s shaking his head too. “I don’t know what you saw, Steve, but Billy wasn’t the guy you hit. It was some high schooler. Drew Larson. He’s fine, minor bruises. Unlike _some_ people, he was wearing his seatbelt.”

“Drew,” Steve murmurs, ignoring the gibe. “I know him. He was on the basketball team.” The guy was lanky and baby-faced. It would be nearly impossible to mistake him for Billy.

“Steve,” says Dustin. “Do you remember why you crashed? Why you ran the red light? They checked for alcohol in your blood but they didn’t find any.”

“I,” Steve says and then looks down, studying the dark blue sling that cradles his left arm. Burning shame crawls up his neck and settles in his cheeks. He knows exactly why he crashed. More than that, he knows he should never have been driving in the state he was in. He could’ve gotten someone killed. Drew. Dustin. Himself.

“Was it the Upside Down?” Dustin prods. “Monsters? The government?”

“No,” Steve says quickly. “Nothing like that.”

“What, then?”

Steve looks up at the ceiling. _Time to bite the bullet_. “Um. I was… tired.”

“Tired?” The kid’s voice is laced with doubt.

“Not, like, played-too-much-basketball tired,” Steve clarifies. “More like, um, didn’t-sleep-for-a-month tired.”

“A month?” Dustin repeats, and then something clicks. He gapes. “You haven’t slept since Starcourt?!”

“Well, I’ve slept, uh, a bit… Like, I wasn’t awake this whole time… I got three hours some nights.”

“ _THREE HOURS_!” Dustin squawks. He’s beginning to sound like an angry parrot.

“Yeah, well, you saw what happens when I sleep,” Steve says defensively.

That shuts him up for a long moment. “That happens every time you sleep?” he says eventually, voice unexpectedly quiet.

Steve shrugs. “Is that surprising? I mean, you must have nightmares. Everyone must, after what we’ve seen.”

“Not like that,” Dustin says, shaking his head. “I get them sometimes, yeah, but I still _sleep_.”

“Lucky you.”

“No, not lucky me, Steve, I have to deal with your dumb ass! You were so tired you were _hallucinating_! Why didn’t you say something sooner? There’s treatments for insomnia, things that could help!”

Steve shifts uncomfortably. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Dustin lets his face drop onto the bed, inches away from Steve’s right hand. When he speaks again it’s muffled by the blankets. “Do you have to be so goddamn dramatic?”

“You’re the one talking to a mattress, dipshit.” Steve pokes the boy’s head for emphasis.

“ _OW_.” The muffled syllable is full of indignation.

“Can we talk about this later? Or never?” Steve says. “I’m an idiot, I shouldn’t have been driving, I feel awful and I should go to fucking jail. End of story.”

Dustin lifts his head and gives Steve a long, searching look.

“And I should have told someone sooner,” Steve adds, sincerely. The kid keeps staring. Steve rolls his eyes. “And I’ll tell the doctor and get treatment.” That must be the right answer because Dustin nods and presses a cup of chocolate pudding into Steve’s good hand.

“Thanks,” Steve says, a little bewildered. Where the hell was the kid keeping that?

Dustin hands him a plastic knife. “No spoons,” he says by way of explanation.

“They had knives but no spoons?”

“Take it up with the nurses.”

Steve polishes off the pudding one knifeful at a time while Dustin launches into a re-analysis of the movie from earlier. He apparently had a lot of thoughts about it while Steve was out, all of which need to be shared right now. He starts assigning characters to members of the party: Steve reminds him of Brand. Dustin is Mikey. Mike is Chunk. Eleven, inexplicably, is Sloth.

Steve doesn’t remember much of the film, but he thinks Mikey and Brand are brothers. It makes him feel warm inside.

When Dustin’s mom comes to pick him up, he gives Steve a hug and swears he’ll be back tomorrow, with the other kids and as many spoons as he can smuggle in. The nurse tells Steve to sleep, promising a concussion check in a few hours, so he does. And when he wakes, rested and nightmare-free for the first time in weeks, he thinks: _What was in that chocolate pudding?_

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't decide if I wanted Steve to see Billy or Hopper, but Billy kind of made the decision for me. He's bossy that way. I'll leave it to you to decide whether he was a side effect of sleep deprivation or something else :)
> 
> Title swiped from the great Robert Frost poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening."
> 
> Hope you enjoyed — drop a review if you did!


End file.
